Chess
by Mara-Amber
Summary: Moriarty masterminds a chess match with living people. Who will be on the chessboard? Who will be checkmate or will it be a drawn? Sherlock Holmes/Irene Adler
1. The white King

Standard disclaimers apply:

Any rights belong to Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC. Only my original characters belong to me.

Dear readers,

This fic was inspired by the BBC-series Sherlock. I was thinking about Doyle's books and his mentioning of Irene Adler in one short-story. And as countless others of Sherlock Holmes' fans, this was the one woman I could picture Holmes with and was thinking about a way to adopt her character into our times. I am afraid, I've gone a bit over the top, but please judge yourself – I found her characterisation in the movie 'Sherlock Holmes' from 2009 suiting, though the rest of the film was not very Sherlock 'Holmish'. I am not sure yet, how far I am taking the story, because I just can't picture Sherlock Holmes in a conventional relationship.

I am experimenting with the POV, I am trying to generate the feeling that you are in Irene's mind, I hope it will work.

Anyhow, here is the story:

**CHESS**

**Chapter one – The white King**

The mild climate was just perfect. A light breeze from the lake offered refreshment. I closed my eyes and let the sun warm my skin. Wonderful. I took a sip of the banana milkshake I had granted myself after finishing my last assignment. Peaceful. Lausanne was my city. Definitely.

The sun disappeared behind the next cloud and I opened my eyes to observe the sailing boats on Lake Geneva. Out on the Lake was a pretty hard wind, judging from the struggling little boats, just the right challenge for ambitious sailors. Yes, that was what I would be doing with my free afternoon: I would take my boat and sail across the lake. There was only a sip left of my milkshake and I waved for the waiter.

"L'addition s'il vous plaît." I had his attention and he waved back, indicating that he would bring it later.

On days like these, the bistro was chronically overcrowded. I sat with my back to the room, facing the landscape. The only reason that the other seat at my table wasn't taken yet, was that all arriving guests needed more than one seat. I emptied my milkshake and wanted to stand up as a rustle of cloth behind me and a click on the table let me stop short.

"Congratulations, that was well done." A low, chesty voice was addressing me in English. The scratching noise of a chair informed me that he took a seat.

Great. So much for a free afternoon. And peaceful. I kept my look on the lake and shrugged. "Thanks. It was a delicate job."

"You pulled it off as usual, Irene. Sophisticated."

What made him do all the way to Lausanne? It was risky for him to leave England. "What do you want, Jim?"

We were over the phase of complimenting each other and I turned around to face him and the drinks he had placed on the table. For once he wasn't disguised, he felt safe in Lausanne. His short cut black hair, his pale skin, the sunglasses and his tourist outfit made him fit into the crowd perfectly. The stereotype Englishman in Switzerland.

He had put one black tea on the table that he was about to ruin by pouring milk into it – and he had organised one water for me. My displeasure reflected on my face as I sniffed on the water. Nothing. Had recently been any drugs developed that were taste- and odourless? I decided to stay on the safe side and shoved the glass aside. He grimaced and pretended to be offended by my lack of trust. With a faked concentration on his tea he stirred it and enjoyed the first sip, his features visibly relaxing. "I've got a peculiar job for you."

As if anything about Jim had been normal. Even once. "I have a reputation to loose, Jim. It depends on the job." As he knew, I was in the convenient situation to pick my jobs and I WAS picky. His confident posture was disturbing.

"I didn't expect anything else." He said and he was honest. He recruited only the best for his errands. What did he have in store this time? I cocked an eyebrow and he continued. "It is a dare for two brothers. A golden medallion, 300 years old with a family crest engraved. It served as the betrothal gift for the oldest son of the family." He grinned smugly. "There is no chance that it will continue to serve this purpose any longer. This branch of the family is going to die out. The medallion has to be abstracted on November 21st, a reception is taking place this evening in the residence of one of the brothers. Jules has already the details."

That was a lengthy speech and bunch of information for Jim and that it was telltale. This simple job was somehow important for him, and that he paid my prize for retrieving such a small object was unusual. This was a job any of his henchmen could handle. Betrothal gift? There had to more behind it. This medallion was not what he was after, it was a decoy. Why me? "I'll have a look." Casually I asked "Anything else?"

"Believe me. You'll appreciate this one. It will be a quite..." he paused as if he was looking for the suiting expression. "entertaining experience. You may keep the medallion." The way he said it, with a sardonic grin appearing on his features was suspicious. Had it something to do with the fact that I was a woman and the target was a man? Betrothal gift? This was more than fishy.

"I am not into illegal things anymore." I took a reserved attitude.

"Irene." He leaned forward and took my hand, petting it. Alarm bells started ringing in my head. "It is a kind of a game. Manage to steal the medallion right under the brother's eyes. They will know that someone wants to steal something on this evening, but they won't be informed what and who. See it as a challenge. There will be no police involved. You are the only one I know who might be able to outwit them."

This was Jim. It was never that simple as he pretended - with him pulling the strings. "That's fishy, Jim. And what is the next step? Kill me with this necklace around my neck? Accuse this man of murdering his fiancee?"

He relaxed in his seat. "I considered this option, Irene. But the world is far more interesting with you in it."

"Great. Thanks, Jim. Seems to be my lucky day. What else?" I couldn't hold back acidness in my voice, but he wasn't touched one bit.

"If you are successful, keep them occupied for four weeks by evading them within London."

What was he planning? Why should I keep this man entertained for four weeks? A distraction for what? "Will there be any killing involved?"

He met my eyes and didn't flinch under my investigate stare, but he was a congenital liar. "No."

So far, he had never betrayed me, his errands have always been the most intriguing and he was paying well. It seemed to be easy money, I'd just have to be careful not to end as an unidentified corpse in a river with this medallion around my neck. "Salary?"

"Expenses based on your calculation, transferred directly on your British account. Fifty percent of your usual salary, plus..." he looked me deep into the eye to make sure that he had my full attention. "This will be your last job for me. I'll never contact you again."

He continued petting my hand and a cold shiver ran down my spine. Was this his way of getting rid of an old lover? I knew how cold-blooded he was first-hand. I draw from his touch and looked into his eyes. Ice-cold. There was no feeling inside them besides the need to be entertained. "I'll have a look." I promised once more.

"Thanks." There was a light dancing in his eyes that didn't please me. He thought he had me on the hook. And maybe he was right. If he was playing a game, he was enjoying it tremendously.

"Has it something to do with the recent kidnappings and bombings in London?" Since I knew of his background, I found the deepening of his smile more than unnerving. It had to do something with it.

He wiped his mouth with a serviette, he was in perfect synchron with the observation camera in the bistro. Every time it took a picture, he had ducked under the table to pick something up, drunken his tea, arranged his sunglasses, wiped his mouth, looked into the drink menu and turned around to look for someone. Not once there would be a picture of his face on the film. "Assumed that you accept, you have one week for the preparation, then contact us in London. We need to prepare your cover. Half of your salary will be on your Swiss account" he checked his mobile, "right now, the other half will be transferred after a successful completion."

Had I said 'Yes' yet? What made him so sure? And 'a successful completion' meant that he decided what was successful and what was not. Still, I nodded my agreement and took my mobile to check my bank account. Again, he pretended to be filled with indignation by my lack of trust, but I knew him better. Actually he would be disappointed if I turned into a trusting personality. He was generous. Once I had confirmed the transaction I tugged the mobile into the pocket of my short skirt, took my backpack and stood to leave. "I'll call you."

Removing his sunglasses he sized me up. "You're in good shape, Irene."

"Exercises, Jim " I jingled my key ring and pointed to my bike.

"Once you arrive, use my apartment." I stopped short and shot him a questioning glance, but there seemed to be no second thought on his side. This other man had to be quite someone that Jim considered it to be necessary to bring me into the game. I stood, leaving the untouched water behind, burrowing my way through the crowded bistro.

"Salut." I waved Matthieu who acknowledged me with a brief, hasty nod and a "Salut, Irene."

I glanced over my shoulder only to notice that our table was already taken by new guests, one sniffing on the water and tasting it. Tourists. Jim had disappeared into thin air as it was his manner.

I made my way home, thinking about London. It had been some time that I had been there and autumn was without any doubt the last season I wanted to experience in this city. There was a reason why I had chosen Lausanne as a residue – aside from the business and rational ones.

I looked for my key in my pockets and tried to turn in the keyhole. Unlocked. That meant that Jules was still here. "Salut!"

He answered from the kitchen. "Salut! I thought you would go yachting."

"I met Jim." What would point it out for Jules.

"I know. I put his documents into your study."

"Thanks. What are you preparing?" I had cautious look into the kitchen, Jules was disembowelling a fish. We would have guests, this dinner promised to be delicious. Among other things, Jules was an exceptionally gifted cook.

"Marinating the fish. Claire is coming tonight."

I looked over his shoulder, the fish was large for two. And I spotted a baguette and a salad. "Anything spare for me?"

"Sure." He turned around and kissed me, my tension wasn't unnoticed. "What did Jim want?" He asked, a concerned note in his voice.

"Jim has a job for me."

"I thought so." He must have noticed my sceptical look. "I thought you have separated and that you are not into his business any longer."

Always my caring younger brother, but I wouldn't discuss my love life with him.

"You know that there never is a true separation from Jim. But he offered an option that might be a final goodbye."

Jules cocked his eyebrows. "I can't believe it."

"It seems he finally found someone else to exercise his mind."

"Great."

"Firstly, I'll check his information."

"Secondly?"

"I'll decide if I take the job."

"He always manages to have the most intriguing ones. And his payment is more then generous." Jules pointed out while I left the kitchen.

I went to my study and started to examine Jim's documents. The first thing that I found was a new mobile, another attempt to provoke me. But knowing Jim well enough, I assumed that he had modified it so that I wouldn't be spotted. Any trace leading to me, would lead to him likewise. Great. That made my day.

Before I settled on the armchair to read all the papers, I put a bottle of water handy. It would take some time to go through all the information though one week was plenty of time. It was obvious that Jim thought that this job required a thoroughly preparation. And if Jim thought so, it was wise to follow his lead.

As I noticed, Jim had already organised a pretence to attend the reception: Colonel Sebastian Moran, he was invited and could bring his companion along. Colonel Moran was still working for the British Army, but was on Jim's payroll as well. I supposed that Jim was forking out a considerable amount to have a respectable and high-ranked British officer working for him. The little detail that Jim had had an indirect hand in the suicide of Moran's wife might be a reason why he had agreed to take part in Jim's game. Anyway, I would meet him in one week, we had to built up a sort of relationship before we attended the reception, anything else might lead to suspicions.

While skimming through the pages I felt my blood running cold. These were high classified MI-6 files about a man called Mycroft Holmes working for the Ministry of Defence. The more I read the clearer it got: I couldn't refuse this job. This was the kind of game I enjoyed playing and if Jim considered these two brothers worthy of his attention, they surely deserved mine. My wits whispered 'no', but my senses shouted 'YES!'. Jim had been right. Once more.

I wanted to stand up and fetch the box with profiles, but Jules was preempting me. "Here. Do you want another water, Irene?"

"Thanks, and yes, please."

"Claire comes in two hours." He threw a demonstrative glance over the chaos I had spread and put a timer beside me, set in one and a half hour. I nodded. There had to be no evidence lying around the time Claire would come.

I took my box with identities, there was one I had never used before and that was suiting the job. I skimmed the content and found the one I was looking for: Klara Fürwanger. German. Interior architect. An attractive woman with a high self-esteem. I looked at the picture: shortcut brown hair and I could use brown contact lenses. The clothing could be eccentric, a mix of sixties and seventies style, a creative, motley style. I would attract attention at a respectable reception. Who would expect a creative, funky and chaotic person with a crush on an old, respectable officer to steal something? It was way too obvious. Jim might fall for it, so probably these Holmes' would fall for it, too. Well, I'd have to adapt the profile a little, but it would do.

I leaned back in my armchair. So Jim had found someone who was willing to play his perfidious games. A man called Sherlock Holmes. And I was one of the pawns on Jim's chessboard. But which one? If I had some more senses left, I would have refused. But being one of of his pieces promised to be a more then thrilling adventure, one that would challenge all my instincts. Of course I couldn't refuse. Once I had gotten used to the kick of adrenaline I couldn't do without it.

And who was I to refuse an assignment by Jim Moriarty himself. There was no chance I could outwit someone like him on the long run. I couldn't help myself: I wanted to meet the person who was able to affront Jim on an equal level. To be honest to myself, I had known the second that Jim had taken seat at my table that I wouldn't refuse this job. Still, his smile had been a tad too content. I had to be cautious. In every respect.

While I collected the documents, I reached for the new mobile and sent my message. 'Got one. See you in one week.'

* * *

><p>I hope you liked it, a comment would be great.<p> 


	2. The rooks

Standard disclaimers apply: Any rights belong to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. Only my original characters belong to me.

Dear readers,

thank you very much for the reviews, it is very helpful to know that you like what I am writing! I am very rough with some people in this story, still, this is the POV from this Irene, not from me. I hope you'll like this chapter, on with the story:

**Chapter 2 – The rooks**

With the usual care I prepared myself for the reception. Even the slightest detail had to fit to the identity I was using.

Indeed, I had organised every little detail of Klara Fürwangers life within one week. I had started with cloths, shoes and I didn't stop with pictures of her relatives. I hadn't brought the smallest piece of my real identity to England, anything might lead to my detection.

I had arrived in London several weeks ago and moved in one of Jim's apartments. The following weeks were spent with meeting Colonel Sebastian Moran and building up a fake relationship. It turned out that we disliked each other at first sight and it didn't improve. The more time we spent together the more we disliked each other. It demanded the best thespian abilities from us both to fake affection.

On the occasions I stayed overnight in his apartment, I used to sleep on his couch – I had had worse nights. At least I knew why Sebastian worked for Jim. The Colonel admired and respected Jim, he adored his genius and his ideas, he was devoted to him. Well, and I was an obvious concurrence for Jim's attention and love.

These conditions made it quite difficult to execute the plan that had formed in my mind over the last weeks. I could never outwit Jim alone, but if this Sherlock Holmes was as brilliant as he seemed to be, this would be my chance to cut all the ties to my old life. Jim trusted me, but under Sebastian's watchful and jealous eyes I had to be extra careful.

Right now I was in Sebastian's bathroom and applying make-up. I rarely used some, but since I was into Klara's personality, it helped a lot. My dress should be a surprise for Sebastian, I took my cape and wrapped it accurately around me. When I was finished, Sebastian was already waiting in the corridor, indicating his impatience by running back and forth. "What took you so long?"

"I needed to make my identity believable and this requires some time." I had the suspicion that he was annoyed because I had listened to German radio the whole day to get a better feeling for the timing and intonation of the language. There might be native speakers attending the reception. The only reason he had endured my capers was, that he respected and valued Jim.

He wrinkled his nose "Let us get over with it."

His apartment had a lift that ended in the underground car park of the building, our car was already waiting. But not his usual driver was behind the wheel, it was Jim. Great. Mr. Control-freak wanted to supervise the evening and Sebastian seemed to be informed about the absence of his chauffeur. It couldn't hurt to know what was going on.

"Where is John?" I asked.

"Drugs. They needed a reliable driver for their getaway car." Sebastian informed me a tad too patronisingly for my taste.

"No interference." Was my greeting for Jim as I entered the car and Sebastian shot me a censorious glance. I answered with an equally hostile stare and Jim giggled. He had observed us in the rearview mirror and was having a tremendous fun with our dislike for each other.

"I see you two are getting along well."

"Shut up." For once, we responded unison.

"Let's get on with it." Sebastian muttered and Jim floored the accelerator, sending Sebastian and me into the back seat.

Once I had my senses back, I stated. "I drive on the way back."

And for the first time I knew Sebastian, he was unconditionally my opinion. "'I'd appreciate it."

Jim just sneered. "Yellowbellies."

"There is a difference between being a yellowbelly and risking my life pointlessly." Sebastian remarked as Jim made a bold overtaking manoeuvre.

"And I'd appreciate not being arrested before I abstract the medallion. It would make the task a little complicated." I pointed out.

"You are the ace in my sleeve, Irene." Jim remarked but his smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Relieving. Indeed." I leaned back in my seat.

Jim and Sebastian switched to talking about their business and ignored me. I looked out of the window watching the passing gaudy advertisements and city lights, pretending not to listen to them. This was the perfect time and my hand slipped into my pocket and I switched my mobile on to record their conversation. Only when we reached the gateway of the Holmes' estate, they stopped their business talk and that was when I stopped my record.

The estate of Mycroft Holmes was impressing, the family had to be extremely well-off: a time-honoured, stately home and that in London.

The door was opened by an old-fashioned butler – I hadn't thought that these relics still exist and the coat of my company and my cape were taken care off.

It was the first time I had a glimpse on Sebastian's formal military uniform – he was a high-decorated officer of the British Army just as Jim's dossier had said. Well, I spotted one new decoration that Jim hadn't mentioned. And by the shocked look Sebastian sent me, I knew that he was not fond of the dress I had chosen. Well, he was a prudent, uninspired man and I grinned at him, taking his arm.

There was the host and he was already greeting Sebastian.

"Good evening, Colonel Moran. It is a pleasure to have you here." The host looked questioning at me and Sebastian felt compelled to introduce me.

"May I introduce my accompanist: Miss Fürwanger. Miss Fürwanger, Mr. Holmes."

This Mr. Holmes was the older brother, Mycroft. He was an attractive, lean man with an accurate hairstyle and restrained, distanced behaviour. He would make a worthy opponent, Mr. Holmes already sharp features appeared to be more like a bird of prey when he greeted me."Miss Fürwanger, it is a pleasure to meet you." Stiff, but urbane and eloquent. Cultivated hit the nail right on the head. A British gentleman as I imagined them.

With a slight nod and a heavy accent I greeted back. "Mr. Holmes, the same to you."

A flickering light appeared in his eyes, and he was holding my hand a tad too long. Somehow I had managed to arouse his suspicion, he was quite perceptive. Great. That meant that I would have to deal with him later this evening. Sebastian must have noticed it too, because he was taking my arm with a glance over his shoulder on the next arriving guests. Tonight he was giving the jealous, possessive lover of a young, adventurous woman. However, as always, Jim had chosen a man suiting the job.

The lobby was filled with people, mostly men from the military with their wives, dates, lovers or whoever they were and Sebastian leaned over to whisper into my ear "Anything to drink?"

"A White Russian, please."

He looked at me as if I came from another planet. What did he expect? I smiled my most faked seductive smile at him and bat my eyelashes. "Pretty, pretty please. A simple White Russian? With cream and not with milk? In a glass, pretty please?"

"Got it." At least he had his aversion against me under control, kissed me and vanished into the crowd. What left me behind with enough time to study the surroundings. With all the people gathered it should be no problem to get upstairs, the demanded object was in the second chamber of the left wing. A piece of cake. I scanned the crowd for any familiar faces, but there were none.

Waiters were roaming through the lobby and offering exquisite finger food that I unfortunately couldn't try. Much to my delight the waiters seemed to have enough insight into human nature not to approach me with their tempting offers.

Soon enough Sebastian was back with the demanded drink. "I need to talk to some of those present. You'll need to tag along to introduce you."

I nodded and took the offered arm, anything else would look suspicious later, my companion wasn't exactly what I called low-profile.

I went through countless introductions, the next person always more important than the last one – at least they thought so. I heard so many faked 'it is good to see the Colonel in company again, in such a charming one in addition.' that I thought I had to throw up. As soon as they turned their backs on us, they started their tattling. Perfect, if we were the centre of gossip this night, it meant that we were not in the centre of suspicion.

It was inevitable that Mycroft Holmes approached me, an in a moment Sebastian was distracted by an old friend, he came. He had two drinks in his hands and he offered me one. "Miss Fürwanger."

I accepted the drink and sniffed on it. Orange, almond, rum and pineapple mainly. A Mai Tai? "Mister Holmes?"

"Are you feeling comfortable?"

"Yes, thank you."

"I haven't seen you around yet, nor Colonel Moran mentioned you before."

"I arrived only two months ago in London to work."

"May I ask about your occupation?"

"I am an interior architect and are about to start my business in London to gain experience."

"It is an exacting piece of work, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is, if it is done with passion and a sense for perfection."

I was spared from anymore questions since some of his more important guests demanded his attention. Sebastian came back from his networking and I handed him my Mai Tai, he drank such poison.

It was then I spotted him. He was of average size, muscular, a jovial, friendly face and expression. Someone everyone liked as a best friend, to go out drinking. But he didn't suit this party. He was way to clumsy, standing at the side, talking to no-one, he was too restrained, he felt rather unsettled in his skin. He didn't belong here, but this wasn't Sherlock Holmes. Was this his companion John Watson? Jim had given me pictures and I was sure, yes, he was it. This man was so indifferent that he stuck out in this gathering of self-opinionated personae – including me.

I jolted as someone addressed me all of a sudden. "Guten Abend. Jemand erzählte mir, Sie kämen aus Deutschland?"

GREAT. Mr. Mycroft Holmes did dig out a German and urged him to test my language skills. His epaulette told me that he was an Air Commodore, I did have a knack for noticeable identities tonight. "Ja. Zur Zeit bin ich als freie Innenarchitektin in London tätig. Klara Fürwanger."

He offered his hand and introduced himself. "Frank Metzler. Sind Sie neu in London? Ich habe Sie noch nie beim deutschen Stammtisch gesehen."

Was he just testing me? "Ja, ich bin erst seit zwei Monaten hier und hatte noch keine Gelegenheit vorbeizuschauen."

"Schade. Vielleicht beim nächsten Mal?"

"Bestimmt."

As much as I disliked Sebastian, he had noticed that I was in trouble and popped up at my side. "Klara? Your Drink." With a perfect balance between stacking his claim and being friendly to Mr. Metzler, he eyed my colloquist and urged me to come with him. "I am sorry", he addressed Mr. Metzler and pushed me away. It seemed that Commodore Metzler was satisfied with his little test, he turned around to talk to someone else.

While I continued to scan the crowd for interesting and maybe disguised people Sebastian continued to do what he did best: network with me as a decoration at his side.

I was about to give up, when I noticed him. The silhouette of a tall, lank man and he was skimming the crowd just like I was. The family resemblance was there, but he hadn't the accurate hairstyle and his cloths were not as polished and a tad over the top as the ones of his older brother. He had a way to move and observe his surroundings that attracted me. He wasn't attractive in an usual way, he wasn't a womaniser, he was exactly my type. Jim must have foreseen it. This had to be the infamous Sherlock Holmes.

There were several possibilities to handle him, the last suspicious behaviour was, to flirt with him and to annoy him. I burrowed my way through the crowd and I positioned myself beside him. "It is an impressive gathering, isn't it?" It couldn't hurt to add a little superficiality. "All this important and rich people."

He threw a glance in my direction, eyed me from tip to toe, didn't miss my look and showed his disinterest by continuing to scan the gathered. From his point of view I wasn't worth an answer.

He was my type, he didn't like the mindless chit-chat one was confronted with at such occasions. He didn't waste his time with it.

But I wasn't put off so easily. I followed his look and the people he fixated. What was his scheme? "Have you tried the cocktails already? The Mai Tai is excellent." I lied.

He threw another contemptuous glance at me and ignored my flirty behaviour. "Indeed, it is." Liar, you haven't tried one!

He didn't show the the least interest in me and tried to get rid of me. He wasn't only attractive, I started to like him. And I continued to play my role, as if I was completely oblivious to his detest. "This estate is impressive. Where is Mr. Holmes' wife?"

If he had really fallen for this dull advances, I would have been disappointed. But why did he answer me? "I do not know."

"And the finger food! Simply delicious! You have to try this one." I picked one from the next tray that was passing us and offered it to him.

He wasn't looking at me and left me standing right where I was.

I had to suppress a victorious grin, I was a master in scaring someone away. I looked at the finger food that I had picked: some prawns. There was the next passing service and I placed the food on her tray – much to her bewilderment. It was then when I looked around and I noticed Mycroft Holmes watching my doing with interest. Yes, it was quite obvious since I had tried to flirt with his little brother. Anyway, he must have noticed my little slip when Sherlock had left me standing behind, there was no chance of denying it. I smiled at him, nodded and mingled to be lost to sight.

While making my way upstairs, I would have to keep an eye on several people, even Inspector Lestrade was around. And once again I was disappointed, they didn't keep an eye on me. No one of them. Without anyone noticing me, I made it to the door of the second room and after a quick glance right and left I vanished into it. Too easy.

Jim had told me the precise place where the medallion was kept and it didn't take me more than two minutes to find it. It was heavy, the amount of gold had to be high, still it wasn't precious. It was of sentimental value. I turned it around, it was untended. Nobody had polished it for a very long time, and had stored it carelessly, there was corrosion in one edge. This spoke volumes of Mycroft Holmes' priorities.

There was absolutely nothing on, in and at the medallion that might attract Jim's attention. Only the fact that it was a very personal item of the Holmes family that wasn't cared for. Way too easy.

All of a sudden my sixth sense warned me: Do not take it, this does not make sense. Never ignore a woman's intuition, mine had saved me several times.

Jim had said I could keep it, and that meant that I could store it wherever I wanted to. I took my mobile out of my clutch and made a picture of the medallion in my hand before I put it back and sent the picture to my email-account.

And not one second too early, because the door was abruptly ripped open and my jolt wasn't faked. The intruder was a tall, lean man with dark-brown curly hair with his eyes clued to his mobile. Sherlock Holmes. He hadn't noticed me yet, I reassured myself and coughed slightly.

He looked up. His keen eyes spoke of his intellect and why did I feel like he was looking right into my soul this time? I had done nothing wrong and I didn't need to justify my presence in this room, it hadn't been locked. As if my presence and his was nothing unusual, I turned my look back on my mobile and sent my message with the picture of the medallion attached to Jim. 'Done. IA.' While I tipped the message, I realised that my fingernails didn't fit. They were neat, but I hadn't used nail polish, I never used some – but Klara would. I deleted the picture of the medallion immediately.

When I was done, I looked up and he was still staring at me, as if something was wrong in the picture he was perceiving and that he was considering what. My cover was perfect, I had nothing to fear, I assured myself. The nail polish was just the icing on the cake.

My mobile rang and we both looked at our displays, we had the same device with the same ring tone. Was this one of Jim's bad jokes? I hadn't adjusted it. It was convenient, it made my plan only easier to execute. It was mine and I shrugged apologetic with my shoulders while he put his into his left pocket. I read: 'No. Got to get out. JM'

The mischievous grin on my face wasn't faked while I walked towards the door. "I've got what I had been looking for."

His blunt "No, you haven't got." made me smile widely. He had realised that I wasn't who I pretended to be, but he wouldn't stop me, he wanted to know about Jim's plan.

Yes, this was Jim's game, I needed more creative thinking and I needed to be faster if I wanted to stay out of prison and live to see my next birthday.

This man was the only reason why Jim had engaged me. But why? Did he expect me to make a havoc of this man's snug little world? He must have known that I'd find him attractive.

He was standing in the doorway, I had to squeeze myself between him and the doorway, I couldn't avoid to jostle him. Perfect. Instinctively he checked his left pocket, yes, the mobile is there. Still, it was wiser to leave as soon as possible. Before he realised that I had exchanged our devices. Something told me that he would be way more colloquial on our next meeting.

Though Sebastian hadn't stopped networking, he noticed me coming down the stairs and nodding towards the exit. Since some other guests were leaving too, we had to wait some time before we got our coat and cape and I looked back to the balcony. Sherlock was leaning against the balustrade and watching our departure. There was no doubt that he had searched the chamber for missing items, but everything was still on its place. Except for his mobile. I gave him one of my mischievous smiles.

"Your cape, Klara." Sebastian had an aggressive tone in his voice, he must have addressed me before. Sherlock must still be watching us, I could verify his assumptions – or deductions as he loved to call them and show off.

I almost yanked my cape of Sebastian's grip, wrapped myself into it and stormed out of the building. While he struggled with his coat, Sebastian had his trouble to follow me and was swearing like a trooper. Jim had given this job to me and he better shut up, before I dropped a word about his unprofessional behaviour. Much to Sebastian's luck, Jim was already waiting to pick us up right at the entrance and we hopped into the car.

There was another man in the car and as he turned to greet us, I recognised John Clay. Mr. Goldfinger in person, he stole gold and jewels exclusively and he was one of the masterminds in the London criminal scene. There was no crime in London that wasn't connected to Jim or John. "Got it?"

I patted my décolleté without batting an eyelid. You had to be a congenital liar to fool Jim, Sebastian and John at once. "Of course, Jim got the picture."

Jim nodded, he was the authority they accepted and in questions of business he trusted me.

The drive into the centre of London passed in silence and when we left the outskirts behind, I looked out of the window. We were in one of the many random streets of London and we were fairly close to my destination. I tipped Jim on his shoulder. "I need to get off."

His mind needed a female challenge and as a matter of fact he was irritated, but he stopped. "28 days, Irene. I want him at my gun barrel on that day, I'll sent you the coordinates."

This was a change of plans typical for Jim and all I did was to nod before I closed the door. There was no use to discuss the matter with Jim and he drove off with Sebastian and John, and with certainty they examined their last foray.

I remained rooted on the place until they were out of sight and switched the mobile on. It took some time before it got a connection, but I got some spare time. There it was. Connected. I was locatable and I messaged Jules "Fish is eatable in England. IA."

If this Sherlock Holmes was smart enough, he would realise my scheme and follow my moves until I had frequented most of Jim's business partners. I was risking my life on the slightest chance that this man could outwit Jim Moriarty. How long would it take until Jim would notice my betrayal? It was essential to find the right timing, to find the right point to make the break. And I knew where I would run to. It was surely not the police. Too many of them were on Jim's payroll.

But this was many steps further. Firstly, I had to get rid off my high-heels and I threw them into the next trash-bin, the stocking took the same way. There was a long walk before me and the slippers in my clutch had to do. The stockings would only tear.

I turned up my collar, the wind was bitter cold, the first snow wasn't far. Making sure that no specific direction was detectable, I took a zickzack course. Only when I was sure that I was not followed and observed by one of Jim's henchmen, I turned to my true destination. I took the mobile to call Jonathan, an old friend. One of my rules was, never to save an important number, I could memorise them all. We had agreed on a code and even when it was in the middle of the night we would know that this is an emergency and that we could rely on each other. Sherlock would be able to extract the information from his mobile provider and follow my move.

An hours walk later – London was a large city to be explored on foot, but it left no traces – I stood in front of Jonathan's house and despite the late hour, there was light in one of his windows. I rang and looked up into one of his camera's before the door opened. Indeed, he was a technophile.

The door closed automatically behind me, a nice touch, this was new. Without further invitation I went upstairs to where the light had been.

I had a cordially welcome. Jonathan leaped from his seat and squeezed me. Once more I wondered how such an old and fragile man could spare so much energy. When I had first met him, I had estimated him seventy years old and that had been fifteen years ago. "Irene! What a surprise! What brought you to London? The last time we met, you were about to marry Godfrey Norton and leave England."

I laughed heartfelt and hugged him as well. "Well, that are two stories and they are not short."

The eyes in his wrinkled face twinkled. "I have time, but you do look like you are in a hurry. May I take the time to fetch us some beer and you may tell me what you have on your mind?"

I followed him to his kitchen and we talked for hours to fill him in. When it was dawn, I took a shower and changed into some less conspicuous dress that I had stored in Jonathan's house just for this occasion. With blue jeans, a black pullover, black boots and a grey cape I could keep a low profile. Jonathan eyed me from tip to toe and with the remark that still most men would look after me, he handed me a square glasses in a black frame. In addition to my Emma Watson short haircut I made the perfect librarian now.

Our idea had been to make a game plan, but I was too tired and as soon as I sat down in the fluffy cushions on his couch, I fell asleep.

Only seconds later a familiar bell rang and the mobile beside me vibrated. I rubbed my eyes, right I was at Jonathan's and that was Sherlock's mobile. I picked it up, there was a message for him and I opened it.

'White bishop takes black pawn. F6. JM'


	3. One white bishop

Standard disclaimers apply: Any rights belong to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. Only my original characters belong to me.

Dear readers,

thank you very much for the reviews, it is very helpful to know that you like what I am writing!

R. K. Sprague, blindkitten, Anna – Lee Ashton: Thanks, I hope I can keep up to your expectations.

Sweets and Charades: About Godfrey Norton, at first I wanted to exclude the story behind it, but after your review and thinking about it, I think I'll rewrite the first chapters. Irene and Sherlock will know each other, I adopted this chapter already. Anyway, I'll continue the fic firstly and then I'll rewrite chapter one and two.

The other characters are taken from:

John Clay: The red-headed league

Larson: The man with the twisted lip

Lysander Stark: The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb

**Chapter 3 – One white bishop**

In a split of a second I was on my feet and calling Jonathan "Come down, it has started." Indeed, that was the game Jim was playing: Chess, it was so like him.

Before Jonathan came down from his bedroom, I had passed the message to the true recipient and had started to rummage in his bookshelf. When he finally arrived in a checkered dressing gown, I had found what I had been looking for.

Yawning, he ruffled his unkempt hair. Never in his whole, long life, he had been a morning person and today was one of his worse mornings. "What happened, Irene?"

I waved the maps of London in front of his eyes. "Are there any more?"

"No. Would you please care to fill me in?" At that time of day, patience was not one of his virtues.

Despite the desolate state he was in, he caught the mobile I had thrown at him in a swift move and checked the message. While he was digesting the news, I spread the maps on his floor. He had three and they were from different centuries in different scales. It was useless. On every map, F6 was a completely different area. "F6 are the coordinates where a murder took place? Who is the black pawn?"

For what reason did he want to know it? I stared at him. "Does it matter?"

His thoughtful look let me hesitate. The black pawn was dead, but it was within my power to track down the white bishop. The place where the body was found was F6. Or was F6 the place where the murder had been committed and the corpse had been removed elsewhere? My insider knowledge of Jim's organisation was not up to date, but it might do. I answered my own question "Yes, it does. You're right."

There were several possibilities to find the identities and we both turned to his computer room. One room in his house was replete with the latest models, inside was barely enough place to stand, but somehow Jonathan had managed to cramp a chair between all the wires, cables and monitors. I stood close behind him, observing him with some envy. His light hands controlled the machines, like others played the piano, he was in his element. It took him only seconds and we had the police servers on the monitors.

Without ceremony he handed me a keyboard. Since he knew that I wasn't a genius with hacking, his trust was flattering and made me nervous. "You take the stations West and North, I'll check East and South."

One by one, we checked the reports, but I didn't find anything out of the ordinary. "Maybe it is not in yet."

"Very likely. Jim would have sent it immediately after the murder took place. There!" he cried out and point to one of the countless screens.

Looking over his shoulder I could read 'Drug-related death, homeless female person, Thames bank.'

Reading the whole report wasn't necessary and I didn't have to ask what made him so sure that this was the right person, a black pawn. The victim was a homeless and Sherlock was known to use their network. Furthermore, the body had been found near Larson's den of vice, a collecting point for all kinds of drugs and it belonged to Jim. "Don't you think it is a tad too close to Larson's?"

"No." His determination was decided. "Everyone who is in the know, can purchase anything from Larson."As he knew very well, I had first-hand experiences with Larson and his range. "This place is a logic consequence. I'd be on alert if she had been found at another place."

A devilish smile crept on my face and I couldn't wipe it away while I tipped my message on Sherlock's mobile.

'Let me entertain you. 2 am. IA.'

It didn't require a genius to figure the place, but it would occupy his mind for a few minutes and he would be reminded of me.

With a wagging finger, Jonathan grinned at me. "Finally you're getting your senses back, Irene."

"Oh, yes, I am. Someone has to do something." I would only be truly free if Jim was in prison, there was noting for free in this life.

All of a sudden, Jonathan turned deadly serious. "Be mindful, you're playing a dangerous double-edged game."

"I do have serious hope that Jim only notices it, when it is too late." After all, Jim was only human. In addition, I had agreed to take part in his game and there were only two ways out of it: being dead or winning the game.

"There is too much passion in this, Irene. Passion is poison for any analytical mind. Emotion clouds the mind, irrational conclusions will be drawn." If one thing was sure, then that Jonathan was worried this time.

"And what if Jim calculated my betrayal?" I pointed out. "That this is a plan to get rid off me in one of his sophisticated ways? That I am in the game to affect Holmes? He would kill two birds with one stone."

Jonathan fished something out of his drawer and held it out to me. "Take it. You might need it."

With reluctance, I inspected the automatic in his hand. "I am not very fond of carrying guns around. Once you carry one, you tend to use it. This is not a very elegant way to solve matters."

"But an efficient one. See it as your life-insurance." insisted he.

"I have already one." I tried to lighten his dark mood.

"And this is the reason why Jim will want to kill you." He seriously argued, he had misinterpreted me. "Jim doesn't share. Not even an old lover."

Was it that obvious that Sherlock attracted me? "You're right. But if this is a game, there is a chance to win if we act wisely."

"I do hope that you are right this time, Irene." Jonathan's warm hand rested on my shoulder.

I took his hand and squeezed it. Not once he had reproached me for getting involved with Jim, though I knew how much resentments he had had regarding Jim. To some extent he had been right and I could feel his resentments against Sherlock. Godfrey had been the ideal candidate in his eyes, but I wasn't born for a sheltered, safe life. I wanted to feel life, to feel excitement running through my veins. And not to live in a townhouse, together with a husband and two children, a 9 to 5 job... I felt a shiver running down my spine.

We left the theme alone and the day was spent with cycling, cooking a meal with Jonathan – in the end we called the Chinese delivery service since we both were complete incompetent cooks.

When it was time to leave, Jonathan ceremoniously handed me the keys to his motorbike. He didn't own one of these choppers old men used to cruise through the landscape to feel cool and free, he owned a fast naked bike. A true bike.

And as anything that belonged to Jonathan, the bike was modified being way faster than it should be. Since I had some time left, I took the freedom and made a spin into the countryside. The kick of adrenaline cost me one filling of the fuel tank, but it was worth it.

It was around eleven PM when I arrived at Larson's and after securing Jonathan's bike, I went down the small flight of stairs, stinking of the remains of the previous leaving visitors. Larson's den was not a place you dress up for, an old trouser and a worn t-shirt was the perfect outfit, forget about make-up and brushing your hair. Outward appearance didn't matter here, and as long as you could pay for the next fix, the content of your wallet didn't count. It was your attitude that counted.

Upon opening the door, I was greeted by the typical tell-tale sweet smell, sticky atmosphere and the trademark music. It was one of the places the music wasn't too loud, guests were expected to talk with each other. Still, it was loud enough to dance. It was grubby, the clientele was dubious, the music-style was a mix of independent and garage-rock, you could purchase anything that was x-rated and restricted. Altogether: I loved this place. In one evening you could study the lowest instincts of mankind and interpersonal relations without hindrance from social rules. This was the basis of mankind. This was reality. This was honest and straightforward.

You would find recreational drugs here, but most of the consumers were oldfashioned. Opium was back as I noticed, cocaine was dated, hash and heroine was consumed, crack was a 'no go' at Larson's, it had always been. Speed was offered, but not regularly demanded. Too many around me had dilated pupils, a hint that the good old LSD and hallucinogenic mushrooms were on vogue tonight, obviously Larson had had a new supply.

At the bar I ordered my obligatory beer. In a place like this, it came along with a free joint to fuel my appetite. Great. Smoking had never been one of my addictions, but one had to do in Rome as the Romans do. I was strong enough to withstand the temptation the next time and I lit it, inhaling deeply. Well, tomorrow I'd need some paracetamol to be functioning again.

When looking carefully around, I spotted Larson - the sharp dealer he was - together with Stark, an exceptional gifted chemist, and former classmate I knew from the University in Heidelberg. During our studies, Stark had realised that it was more satisfactory for him to brew dyestuffs, than to research a theme nobody except estimated thirty people in the world were interested in. The dye on his false money and his paper was perfect, this had been the faster way to fame and glory. Since the last time I had seen him, he hadn't changed much. He was still the bony, tall man, who wouldn't need to disguise on Halloween to scare anybody away. Both of them paid me no attention, I had looked utterly different when they had seen me the last time.

"Hey, how much?" A low, deep voice addressed me from the side and I glanced at the owner of the voice. A lanky, midsize junkie with a pale face, unhealthy features and fatty blond hair was standing beside me.

"Fuck off." My joint and beer was for more healthy than his evaporations and I concentrated back on them.

This was the moment the entrance opened again and everyone stared at it, I choked on my drink. Dr. Watson and his girlfriend stood rather puzzled in the entrance, too neatly dressed to pass unnoticed. Some nasty comments about upper class snobs made the round, but since they entered, the state of shock lasted only a sniff and everyone turned back to his former business.

For an establishment like this one, these were upper class-customers indeed; they were rare, but they came. It was the high quality that Larson sold. Not that cheap, adulterated stuff the dealers trafficked around the trendy-pubs to the revellers who considered it to be cool to take drugs. The vast majority of Larson's customers wouldn't be cheated this easily. The Watson party was none of my concern and with relief I looked at the smoked joint to toss it.

The next song on the play list was one of my favourites and I wriggled though the canned crowd to reach a place on the dance floor. Once the music moved my body, I was in another world and I mingled with the dancers, starting to flirt with the next so-called attractive man on the floor. He instantly flirted back, but he wasn't my type. One of these arrogant, brawny, show-off man who thought that he gets every woman because he does excessive training and drives a fast car. Brawny, but not much more to it. My good-looks was just what he was after, and well, I had a knack for adrenaline-addicted psychos, he was not my type. I blew him a kiss and moved on.

Then one lanky man in shabby cloths caught my attention, he wasn't moving to the music, he was leaning against a pillar. His silhouette, his movements, his dark hair combed back, made him appear cryptic and dangerous. The dominant cheekbones, the full, luscious lips that would suit a woman so well. This was the kind of guy that attracted me physically, and I had a suspicion who it was. The chemistry between our bodies couldn't be denied.

I danced my way across the floor until I stood in front of him to look into his eyes, eyes with an undefined grey colour and a keenness that had no rival. He didn't evade my look and I took it as an invitation. Indeed, behind the disguise was Sherlock Holmes, by his reaction I could see that the recognition had been mutual.

The mobile thwarted my plans: it vibrated, there was a message for him and it wasn't in the most convenient place in the moment. There was only one solution: I moved closer, lying an arm around his neck to pull his head to my lever. He didn't resist and so I could whisper into his ear: "You got a message."

Putting the mobile into his pocket had been no problem, while I had gotten my own one back. While he checked the mobile, I vanished into thin air to look for a cigarette automate, I was in need for one. It was at the usual place, between the toilets. The choice wasn't easy, I checked the vendor, my favourite brand wasn't there. Right, I was in England and not in Switzerland.

"Need some coins?"All of a sudden a hand slammed right and left of my head against the machine and I jumped around,facing him. Sherlock Holmes. He stared down at me, deploying all his personality and I stood his gaze.

It was a game two could play and I slowly licked my lips. "I have enough change."

"What are you planning?"

"Dies diem docet." I quoted Publilius Syrus.

"Why did you agree to play?"

"I think it is obvious, Sherlock. I love games."

"You have many addictions, Irene."

Just in this moment, Lysander Stark turned around the corner and there was only one place to hide. I grabbed his lapel and pulled him down. Gods, he smelled so tempting, natural, he didn't use any after-shave or deodorant with perfume. Irene, that is not the right moment to start an affair, I kicked myself in the butt and whispered. "One is right behind you. Lysander Stark, also known as Mr. Phoney. He had his hands in every case of forged money in England for at least 10 years. He is one of Jim's bishops."

Stark had reached us and tipped on Sherlock's shoulder. "Move, I want some cigarettes."

My cover wasn't looking at him when answering. "You're interrupting."

That was something you wouldn't say to Lysander Stark and he pushed us aside. Sherlock pretended to protest, but I pulled his face back, I didn't need Lysander to spill the beans on Jim, there was a slight chance he might recognise me. In less than a minute, Lysander had his cigarettes and left.

I released my grip on Sherlock, but he remained as close as he had been. Was it tactic? To make me nervous? He must have realised the effect he still had on me and he used it, his hand moved to my cheek and he captured my look with his intense, keen eyes. Time seemed to stop and I resisted the need to lean into his hand, he wouldn't play his perfidious with me. I was strong, I could stand this, I could outfox Jim and I would set the pace with Sherlock. For sure he knew of my struggle to be the one control.

"I need some more information to trust you, Irene. In the past you haven't proved to be very trustworthy."

As if I was an almighty and omniscient God. "Jim's other rook is Colonel Moran."

"Anything new? You know that I deduced that so far." said he and underlined his arrogant expression.

I didn't have much more for him. "Larson is one of the bishops as well as Stark. Colonel Moran and John Clay are closest to Moriarty, they are the rooks. You may remember John Clay, you once placed him on the third position of the most intelligent people in London."

He nodded and as if it was a natural reflex, his thumb caressed my cheek. For my taste he was too good in getting me to do what he wanted. "Who are you? The black or the white Queen?"

For him, the answer was crystal clear, the question was rhetorical to get me thinking. Sherlock's or Jim's. His closeness was unbearable, I could feel the heat of his body, he was manipulating me, he was playing with me. I must have had a devil in me when I had parted from Godfrey. If I was still with him, I wouldn't be in this situation with this perverse genius, but exactly that was what drew me to him. He was dangerous, I could taste life around him.

"You deduced it." I breathed into his ear and resisted the temptation to kiss him right there. I felt his satisfied grimace before I noticed what was going on behind him and cried out "Watson's in trouble!"

'In trouble' was mildly put. A rough bar fight was going on, how could we miss it? Larson was right in the middle of the brawl as well as Watson, Watson's girlfriend was dealing blows – I had to give her credit, she was protecting him well. Sherlock and Watson exchanged glances and I pointed at Stark, who stole away. "He's getting away."

Sherlock took my arm and steered me to the exit. "No, he won't. Can you drive?"

Was he referring to the polluted air in this establishment? My head had started to ache, the opium had made me sleepy, my sight was blurry. Asides from that, I felt well enough, that was nothing out of the usual. "Yes, get yourself a helmet."

He didn't need a second invitation and grabbed one handy before we hurried out of the club into the cold night. Watson did look as if he could keep Larson in check and the back-up force with Lestrade was organised by Sherlock while I readied the bike. Stark was driving a bike as well, and paying no attention to us. Many had left the den and fled the place in expectation of the sure to come police raid. As soon as I was done, Sherlock was too.

"Hold on tight." I instructed him and obviously he didn't need the advice, he clenched his fingers into my leather-jacket and he surely did so with his other hand on the handle behind him. When we took the first turn I noticed that he wasn't used to riding on a bike, but luckily he was a fast learner and some turns later he trusted my driving skills and leaned into the turns with me.

Stark was taking a direct road out of London, and soon taking the M4 – much to my relief. It was easier to trail him with some more traffic around us. We passed the outskirts and followed him, passing smaller satellite cities.

With the time I noticed that my vision blurred and my head started to ache, I started to feel the effects of the drugs at Larsons. It couldn't be far to Stark's destination, he wouldn't choose a home too far from London, he would have to drive the distance several times a week and I got a grip on myself. Just a little longer! There, in front of us appeared the neon lights and the loud coloured advertisements of the next city – Reading. Stark left the M4 and I tracked him.

Directly behind Reading, a growl in my stomach didn't announce anything good. Opium always had been poison for my system, causing sleepiness and nausea. I had to stop between some trees in front of the town, ripped the helmet from my head, tossed it into Sherlock's hands – who didn't look any better as I noticed from the corner of my eyes - and vanished behind the next tree. For some minutes I preferred some privacy.

When I was done, I looked for my pillion rider, he was standing in the middle of the street, oblivious to the passing traffic – at was early Sunday morning, so there was nearly none – and observing the street Stark had used. I wasn't in the mood for explanations and took my helmet from him. "His hideout isn't far."

The dizziness in my head refused to subside, was that a wolf between the trees? Why was it so hard to concentrate? "What makes you so sure?"

"The next town is too far away and not small." Sherlock was slurring and he wasn't walking straight. This wasn't just the opium. "He needs a secluded place."

My knees shook and I felt the full effect of whatever it was, it wasn't hash and it wasn't opium alone. The trees extended their branches to catch us and draw us between them. Something was off: Sherlock was making a headstand on the road marking. All I wanted to do was to sleep, there was no chance I could drive in this stadium and I tossed him the keys. "I can't go on. You drive."

His vision of the world was still upside down. Was he paying Australia a visit? "No, I can't."

This was confusing, that was the simplest thing to do. "Why not?"

Finally being back from Australia, he stared at me as if this was the most normal thing on earth. "I have no driving license."

Now it was my turn to stare at him "You do have no driving license?"

He spread his arm to embrace the next tree, he was dangerously close to be swallowed by it. "That was the meaning, yes."

"But..." It was useless to discuss, there was no way he could drive this special bike back to London without any experience. With a sigh I put the keys back into my pocket and in the lights of the next passing car I got a good look into his usually keen, clear eyes. His pupils were widened, the iris only a small band, he was on hallucinogens just as I was. This would be a trip to remember if we made it to Reading and managed to get a hotel-room. "We'll have to wheel the bike then."

"Most obviously so, yes." He was humming a melody and waving his fingers in the rhythm.

Since he didn't move a finger, it was up to me to care for Jonathan's bike, but luck was on our side, we could see a hotel from our place. It wasn't too far and it didn't take long to reach the first rundown Hotel in Reading. The red and pink illuminated advertising was suspicious, but my sight was so affected that I couldn't read anymore. Only a few more minutes and I would drift into a completely different world. What had been in the joint? Had Larson recognised me? This wasn't only the effect of the smokes in the den.

It was obvious that Sherlock didn't feel any better, because he didn't object to enter. "They'll have a shower and a bed. What do we need more?" I recalled the moment Stark had pushed us out of the way. Had he unnoticed by us – given Sherlock something? He looked as horrible as I must look: pale, perspiring and tired. We had to pull ourselves together and I pushed the door open, but was overtaken by Sherlock who had put on his most concerned face as he turned to the clerk. "Please, Sir, we need a room for tonight. Is one available?"

The clerk eyed us from tip to toe and screwed up his nose. "I am sorry, Sir." The 'sir' pressed between his clenched teeth and dismissive face wasn't exactly what I called polite. "There is a conference at University, there is no room vacant."

In an intimate manner Sherlock leaned on the counter, I wasn't sure, but some notes changed hands. "Please, Sir. My wife isn't feeling well and we can't go on driving on a bike tonight. She is still suffering from morning sickness. We'll leave early in the morning."

To the young clerk I must have looked horrible, because he turned to the computer to check the occupancy. It couldn't hurt to play along and let myself drop into the armchair with a suffering expression.

"There is one, you'll have to fill in this registration form, please."

As Sherlock began to complete the form, he was going up and down with his head and starting to move strangely, the clerk started to eye him mistrustfully.

"He forgot his glasses." I cleared the situation and it was enough to dispel his concerns about Sherlock's strange movements.

Once the clerk had checked the form, he looked at us. "Credit card, please."

Sherlock turned to me and stretched out his hand. Great. It took me a while to fumble my portemonnaie out of my leather-jacket and when I opened it, I couldn't recognise what was the correct card. I handed the whole thing to Sherlock, but he seemed equally lost.

"This one, Sir." The clerk pointed out and Sherlock handed it to him while the clerk lowered his voice to a whisper. "If you need some medicine, just tell me."

Despite his stadium Sherlock seemed to function well, while I couldn't focus on one coherent train of thought. "Yes, we could use some paracetamol."

With a short nod of his head, the clerk vanished into his office and came back with the desired pills. Relieved that we could finally go to our room, I stood up and with some common effort we managed to find the correct floor and the right room. Much to our luck, the hotel had magnetic cards as keys - you didn't need to hit the keyhole.

Once inside, all I did was to lean against the wall and glide onto the floor. I barely managed to squirm myself out of my leather trousers when I noticed that Sherlock didn't plan to sleep it off. He was determined to go out and instantly I was on my feet blocking his way. "What do you think you are doing?"

"Try to find out where Stark is. He is near Reading, his laboratory is here."

Indeed, he was serious. It had to belong to one one of his drug-induced visions that he was so sure of it. "No, you're not going anyway."

I started to understand why his older brother was so overprotective. In certain aspects Sherlock was like a little child who needed to be looked after. "I am going, I know where Stark is."

With a slow movement I cocked my automatic and held it under his nose. "No, you won't. You are not in the condition."

His only response was a raised eyebrow. "You won't use this."

"What makes you so sure?" Brazenly I challenged him, not evading him.

"This." His one hand raised to my cheek to caress it, followed by his other hand, he cupped my face and kissed me. He was persuasive with his tongue, I dropped the gun and looked him in the eyes. There was the same coldness as in Jim's, my clouded mind told me, there was the same ruthlessness, he didn't care for my feelings. He played with me. No.

"No." I pushed him away, I wouldn't let him have his way with me. From my point of view, he appeared to be rather surprised. Did anyone behave as this spoiled child predicted? "You won't pass me."

His eyes fixed mine, I felt like being a prey. "You're mistaken, Irene." His deep voice, his arrogant intonation and his self-confidence fascinated me, drew me closer to him and I couldn't control my reactions. Never ducking his stare, I traced the lines of his wonderful full lips, the contour of his prominent cheekbones. With deliberate slow moves, his hands wandered down my shoulders, my arms, only to stop on my waist and wrap around me. This was not the time to fight an attraction that was stronger than we both and we gave in. Indeed, this was a night to remember.

A penetrant ring persisted in my aching head and it took me sometime to orientate me. Sitting up, I noticed that I was lying in the opened closet, a moist towel wrapped like a turban around my head. In a shock I remembered the hot night Sherlock and I had spent, and I looked down on myself. The pants were still in place, as well as my tee. Perfect, this had been an illusion and I had to be dishonest not to admit that this was regrettable. In my imagination this had been the perfect night with a permanent struggle for the upper hand.

The caller was persistent and finally I noticed that the mobile was under the damp towel. Great. "Yes." It was a habit of mine never to answer a call with my name, it had proven helpful during my life. It couldn't hurt to look for Sherlock and I stood.

"Who are you and what are you doing with my brother's mobile? Where are you?" A frosty, commanding voice answered.

A cold shower ran down my spine. Everyone, but not him. Buy time. "May I ask firstly who YOU are?" Sherlock wasn't under the bed or crouched in a corner, but his shirt was hanging from the ceiling light and his trousers were lying on the floor, as well as his pants and socks.

"Since you are answering my brother's mobile, I suppose you know me."

What he left unsaid was, that no-one who dealt with his brother so intimately couldn't be a dumb moron. "I am Klara Fürwanger, I was at your reception. Your brother and I confused our mobiles, we'll meet later to exchange them. May I give you my number so that you can call your brother? Is it a case of emergency?" I found him. He was lying in the filled bathtub, supposedly naked, but wrapped in a blanket.

There was an unpromising silence at the other end before Mycroft – rather neutral – commanded. "Hand the mobile to my brother, Irene."

Before I answered, I had a short hard thinking about life in general and death in particular, about collaborators and foes. "He is still asleep."

"Wake him up. Now."

Since I knew that Mycroft would hear anything, I turned on the water. Ice-cold. "Sherlock, mobile."

Mobile was the magic word and in an instant, Sherlock sat straight in the bathtub and grabbed the mobile. The blanket fell aside and I could see what had been hidden under his shirt: three nicotine patches. He had had these on? In addition to the drugs at Larson's? He must feel like a Zombie.

All I heard from the mobile was a rather rigorous voice, surely a roasting from his lovely brother and Sherlock grimaced over the loud voice, said "Fuck off." and ended the call before he dropped back into the water. I had a full view on his lean, trained body and I couldn't deny that I liked what I saw.

In this very moment his mobile rang once more, a message. He opened it and I looked over his to read it. 'out of detention cell. larson arrested. JW'

Never loosing any time, Sherlock contacted Jim. 'black tower beats white bishop. SH'


End file.
